Acta est Fibula
by O.A.I
Summary: (DARK! Snarry) The Wizarding World is an ugly, black place that sucks the innocence out of everyone it touches. No one survives it unscathed. Not even Harry Potter, and especially not Severus Snape.


**(A/N) **This is a Dark Slash Fic, which means an abusive/violent male/male relationship - if you have a problem with this please do not read the story as it may offend you. **I am in no way responsible if you choose to read this despite the warnings and regret it, for whatever reason.** Note that I have also posted this story on other fan fiction websites under the same pen name.

**NOTE:**

I really enjoy a well written fic where Snape is enslaved to Harry. Sadly, there just aren't enough of them. Thus, I have decided to write my own. I credit Emily Waters, the excellent author of _Ashes of Armageddon_ and _Proof of Life_, with inspiring this story through her exceptional work; both of these pieces can be found on the HP fandom website.

The story itself is entirely AU, while being series inclusive (this is explained in later chapters). Please, keep in mind this is my first attempt at DARK fiction and at writing this level of explicitness – I'm not entirely sure what I'm getting into here. The plot may also be better classified as bipolar.

**Warnings:**

Dark, AU, Snarry, slavery, profanity, violence (including abuse/torture), homophobic behavior, angst, mentions of animal abuse, BDSM, and slash sex (including rape/non-con). There may be more warnings added later.

At the moment, I have not edited anything out of this chapter. There is some debate over whether or not this classifies as M or MA – mostly over what actually qualifies as "explicit". If enough people think this is MA or FF dot net complains to me I will edit out what is needed to keep the story posted here.

**Disclaimer:**

The Harry Potter series is copyright of J.K. Rowling and various companies, not me. This was written purely for my own purposes and I make no profit from it.

**Acta est Fibula**

**By O.A.I.**

**Edited by**** inu382**

**Chapter 1:** An Abused Animal

He was lying, shivering, on the cold stone floor of his cell, lost in nightmares. The exposed bits of his body were covered in half-healed bruises, burns, and cuts. A swift kick to his gut forced him awake, coughing and retching, holding his abused abdomen.

"Get up, cur!" The gravelly voice of Guzzle Gobbleng, owner of the Burning Wizard, rung in his ears. The brutal man had taken to calling him 'cur' like it was his name; though he wasn't certain he remembered what it really was anymore.

Cur moved as quickly as he could to obey. Compliance bought him little here, but when he was lucky he got to clean the tables, finding a few scraps of food to fill his empty stomach. Not eating wouldn't kill him and Gobbleng knew it; the longest he'd gone without food for certain had been two months. The only reason he knew that was because he'd had to put up and remove the paltry decoration in the tavern for Halloween and Christmas. Time really didn't hold much meaning to cur anymore. He didn't know how long it had been since he'd been sold to this place, or even how long it had been since the war ended and he'd been condemned to this life. His memories of that time were vague now, lost in the intervening years of pain since he'd been stripped of his rights and everything else. The people who liked to spend their coin to abuse him used to take pleasure in reminding him - usually with a hot iron - every year. Now though, they no longer bothered to pretend his debasement was part of some punishment for what he'd done; they simply did it because they enjoyed it.

"Clear the tables and be quick about it!" Gobbleng called over his shoulder as he went into the tavern's kitchen.

Wasting no time, cur grabbed a bin by the kitchen door and, with a quick glance around, he moved to the nearest table collecting dirty dishes. He quickly stuffed bits of half eaten food into his mouth. The tavern's fare was barely passable when hot; cold and dried out, it wasn't any better, but he would take what he could get. The Burning Wizard wasn't popular because of its food - it wasn't even for the drink - though both sold well since they were cheap. No, this tavern was frequented for its _entertainment_.

The stairs to the attic rooms creaked and cur quickly shoved a handful of dried out chips into the pocket of his filthy, torn, and graying covering – they could not be called robes anymore, tattered as they were, but they were all he was allowed. He glanced carefully through the curtain of his hair to see if his actions had been caught, but the pig faced woman was yawning – oblivious – as she descended the steps; Venima, Gobbleng's squib of a daughter. Cur was certain, based on the many scars shown off by her scanty clothes, that before he'd been sold to the tavern, she had been the establishment's attraction for the patrons. Immediately, he turned his attention back to clearing the tables, not daring to eat anything else with her in the room. She would take extreme pleasure in ratting him out to Gobbleng, claiming he was stealing food – regardless of the fact no one else wanted it.

Cur continued working, periodically checking where Venima was, avoiding the woman as best he could. Putting the now full bin back where it belonged – giving a longing look to the food still left in there – he picked up the rag to wipe down the tables. A swift blow to the back his legs sent him painfully to his knees. He didn't need to look up to know who it had been; she was humming as she walked away, spinning the sweeping broom as she went.

He was wiping down the last table when the patron's door opened to admit a broad bundled up figure. "Oi!" Yelled Gobbleng when he heard the bell above the door chime, "We're not open till-" But he stopped, frowning, when he saw the man's face. "Oh, it's you, Dawlish. Been a while." It was clear from Gobbleng's tone it had not been long enough.

"Guz." The wiry haired wizard replied. "Thought I'd have myself a bit of an evening." He leered at cur, who shivered, and sat down at one of the booths. "Bring me a bottle, squib." Venima scurried behind the bar, "And none of that watered-down shite!" he called after her. Gobbleng frowned, but didn't say anything as Venima placed a still sealed bottled on Dawlish's table. Dawlish always got what he wanted in the Burning Wizard. If he didn't, cur was certain the place would be closed faster than Gobbleng could blink.

The door chime rang again; a group of bundled men entered the Tavern and Gobbleng turned, yelling at cur, "Get where you belong!" Cur flinched. This was always the worst part. With Dawlish there he seriously considered trying to run for it, but he knew from experience he would not make it far. So he walked onto the low platform in the middle of the room, took off his covering, and knelt. The men who'd just walked in eyed him with looks of anticipation and he hung his head to avoid their gazes. A flick of Gobbleng's wand and his arms were pulled up over his head, locked in heavy manacles attached to an invisible chain. He tried not tremble, to show any signs of his fear, but it never worked once he was in this position – exposed and bound.

Six more men came in; five taking seats close to the platform for a better view. One dropped his cloak on a chair and stepped up to the dais. Tossing a Galleon onto the stage, the man waited a moment for the coin to melt through the floor and register who had paid, before moving forward and grabbing a fist full of cur's black hair. The man pulled out his ridged cock with his free hand, shoved it into cur's mouth, and began to thrust. Cur choked and spluttered. He wanted to bite down, he always did, but was never able to – something in the damn curse prevented it. The man gripping his hair gave a grunt and cur's mouth was flooded with bitter cum.

Cur tried to spit the disgusting fluid from his mouth, but he bit his tongue when his hips were jerked upwards and gave a hoarse cry as he was filled forcefully from behind. He gritted his teeth, trying not to think about what was happening, but another hand grabbed his hair and his mouth was assaulted again. When the two were finished others took their place, and the tavern continued to fill with eager patrons waiting for their own opportunity upon the stage.

He wasn't certain how long they had used him for or just how many times he'd been used; all he knew was that his throat and insides ached. The worst part, though, was that it wasn't over yet and it wouldn't be – not until he lost consciousness. He always hoped he would die, but he had yet to be so lucky. Frankly, with everything he'd been forced to live through, he wasn't even certain he could die anymore.

The next man stepped up and snapped his fingers; cur shuddered as the gleaming implements appeared to his left. He breathed deeply, trying to prepare for the pain he knew was coming, but it never seemed to work. He screamed as the tipped whip cut into his flesh, again and again. Many of the men returned to the dais, taking up their favorite devices, marring his flesh in their own ways.

It didn't take long before he was lying, twitching from the pain, on the cum and blood splattered dais, and still it was not over. Cutting into his flesh, stripping it away, never seemed to be enough for these men. They never bothered to use spells on him - they always seemed to prefer more hands-on cruelties. Sharp blows rained down on him from all directions. He whimpered, and tried to protect himself, but it was a wasted effort. Shouts of pain rent the air with each broken bone. Yet still it was not over.

He sobbed into his broken arm when Dawlish stepped up, shears in hand. He tried to tuck his hands under him, in a futile attempt to protect them. Dawlish twisted him, grabbing his bound hands. He tried to struggle, to fight back, but he was never able to. He screamed as Dawlish enjoyed his favorite pastime – cutting off his fingers. Dawlish was not the only one who took pleasure in hacking off bits of him; lucky for them, everything always grew back - eventually. By the time they were done the platforms surface was slick with his blood. His vision was swimming now and he wheezed with each breath, his throat raw. Gobbleng moved forward; it was almost over. All that was left was for the tavern to exhibit its namesake. Cur was nearly thankful for this part. It was usually over quick – the black void of unconsciousness would soon envelop him.

A hushed anticipation fell and he closed his eyes, waiting for the burn of the flames. It never came. He heard footsteps and whimpered. He couldn't move anymore, not even to curl up in a ball. He couldn't scream for them anymore, his throat was too ragged. What more could they want to do to him now?

A hand lightly touched his head, moving his bloodied hair from his swollen eyes. He had expected more pain, but the pain began to ebb away where that hand touched him. Something warm covered him and he was shifted onto his back before being lifted in a pair of arms. His abused body ached, and he gave a strangled cry when he was picked up. The person's harsh breathing was the only thing he could hear, but he felt cold breeze caress his burning skin and he was certain they had gone outside. Moments later he felt squeezed and compressed on all sides and then finally, he lost consciousness.

He sat back in the chair beside the bed, his green eyes roving over the heavily bandaged man on the wide cot. He'd spent hours working to repair worst of the damage that had been done. He'd been able to reattach the shorn off fingers, but the toes had been torn away and the spells he knew didn't work so well for that; the ears had not been salvageable. The broken bones were either mended or in the process of healing. Potions had brought down the swelling and fever, and the cuts were now scabbed over through the use a of balm.

As he contemplated his new house guest, he realized it was a bloody miracle – literally – that the man hadn't died from all these injuries. He couldn't actually say that the man's being alive was a good thing though, seeing at what he'd clearly been living through. He hadn't seen much of what had been done to Snape, but he could infer a lot from wounds left behind.

Earlier that night he'd been in Knockturn Alley, visiting Borgin & Burkes. He always hated going to any Wizard community, but London was always the worst; too many people he knew and might run into. He hadn't had much of a choice though. His procurer, Lubrious Clipper, had been unsuccessful in convincing Burke to part with a very old book. He had come to get it regardless of what Burke wanted and had succeeded through a bit of illegal magic and the use of his invisibility cloak.

He had just stepped out of the shop when an old faded sign on the brick wall opposite the store caught his attention:

THE BURNING WIZARD!

You can't find entertainment like this anywhere else!

Open 9 pm – Midnight, Every night!

There was a picture of man on his knees, howling and writhing in pain as he burned. Normally he would have just ignored such a sign, but the image of the burning man had struck him; there was something familiar about the face. He was almost certain he was imagining the memorable curve of that hooked nose.

He shook it off and walked a ways down the street, turning into a darkened lane. He removed his invisibility cloak and stuffed it into his pocket – he needed to make a quick stop at the all night apothecary for some black root. Looking around briefly for the direction he needed to take, he set off towards the Late Night Brewer.

The streets were quiet, most everything was closed at this hour. As he crossed into an adjacent street, the sounds of uproarious yelling pulled his attention to the dingy establishment at the end of the short lane on the left. His eyes fell on a much bigger painting of the kneeling man, engulfed in flames. The face, so much larger here, was even more telling - it had definitely been modeled after Snape. Something coiled inside of him and he moved, without really deciding to, towards the tavern's door.

The place was filled with people, some standing, some sitting, all drinking and cheering on something that he could not see. The stench of blood, sex, sweat, and alcohol assaulted him. A man to the right was fondling an ugly woman. He turned around to leave; he did not need to see the inner workings of a brothel. Then, someone called through the open door to the kitchen on his left, "Oi! Gobbleng! Snape's ready for the fire!" The thing in the pit of his stomach twisted and he whipped around and caught sight of a rotund man carrying a wand step into the crowd, which parted to either side. Through the channel of men, and around the side of the rotund man, he could see a bloodied mass. If not for the fact a face was partially discernible, he would not have known it was human.

That unmistakable nose, though bloodied and bent, registered in his mind at the same moment the fat man raised his wand, and the coiled thing sprang. The people in the room became unnaturally still, frozen in place. He was breathing heavily, his eyes focused only on what was left of the man in the middle of the room.

A few breaths later and he was walking forward, up onto the platform. Crouching down, he carefully brushed the sticky hair out of the tortured man's closed eyes. The face, though damaged, was still recognizable: Snape. He hadn't seen this man for more than seventeen years; he'd thought the hook nosed wizard had died then. Clearly, he'd been wrong.

Something began to burn in him as he pulled off his cloak and tucked it around Snape. He didn't have time think on it though. He carefully rotated Snape on his back and picked him up. The pitiful noise the man let out only increased the burning. With a quick flick of his hand at the red stained bucket of parts, he resolutely headed for the exit – the bucket floating along in his wake. He stepped out into the cold November night and looked down at his burden. Snape needed looking after immediately; the black root would have to wait. Hooking a finger on the buckets handle he closed his eyes and thought of home, apparating into the night.

He'd realized after the fact that what he'd been feeling was rage. It boiled in him even now, tempting him to go back and burn that tavern full of people to the ground. He couldn't though; the world thought he was dead and if he wanted to keep it that way, a bonfire was not the brightest idea. Instead, he rolled the emotion around inside himself, intrigued by the long forgotten feeling. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd felt anything. Though, he supposed he'd felt something when the war had ended. He just couldn't recall what it had been.

(To be continued…)

**(A/N) **Well, this is going to be a strange piece to write. Hopefully, I haven't turned too many people off with this. I also think I missed some more opportunities for puns; if you spot where I could put another one, let me know! I love a good pun.

_Acta est Fibula_ (Latin)

Translated 'the drama comes to a close' (courtesy of inu382), or the 'the play is over' according to the website I found it on (I think it was - about dot com). I was looking up Latin sayings/phrases and thought this would make a great title.


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